Abruptly he gripped her wrist. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself. Give me your hand. Come. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. Having secured this implement, he burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally spring into the clockfaces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the pantomime,—that is, back foremost,— broke into a fit of loud and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the boards. There were lines in her face that age had not put there.
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